Memories

They pulled up their chairs in a row behind me and listened eagerly to my stories. My stories were true accounts of experiences I had had. “Is it really true?” they asked. “Yes, it’s true.” I insisted. Their were five or six of them, maybe more, I don’t remember exactly. They were stair-step brothers starting at about age six. That means that they were born approximately one year apart give or take a few months. The details of that time are sketchy but I had never washed dishes before to such a delightful audience. It was wonderful. I barely noticed the huge pile of dirty pots and pans, utensils, cups and plates on the long counter beside me. The eager listeners were respectful and enthusiastic. “Tell us more!” they begged as each tale came to an end. I had had adventures in my nineteen years, but this was classic. I talked and talked. Talking is what I did best, and I told story after story. The dishes were getting washed and rinsed and piled on the other side of the sink. Their mother burst into the room, brandishing a long wooden spoon. “Get out!” she hollered, “Get out! Either pitch in and help or just get out!” They scrambled and I was left alone with the rest of the pile. My shoulders sank and my spirits dropped. I had lost my companions and was left alone to the lonely task of cleaning up the kitchen. I don’t suppose it did look right to the poor mother. All those big boys sitting in a row behind me, watching me do the dishes. She couldn’t know that I was perfectly happy and that if I needed any help at all they would have eagerly jumped in. She couldn’t know that keeping them together in chairs was much easier for me than to supervise the half grown boys in a cleaning effort. I hadn’t won their confidence yet. I hadn’t won their team spirit yet. I was doing what I really did do best. Telling stories. Worse than having to wash that mountain of dirty dishes was having to wash them alone. It was too much like my own lonely childhood, standing for hours in front of a sink of dirty dishes, beside a counter with the remains of a meal eaten by a family of ten to twelve or more people. It’s no wonder I eventually became the Queen of disposable dishes. Disposable dishes weren’t that common back in those days though and a woman who was faithfully bringing a new child into the world every year was really thankful to get some help in the dish washing department, I’m sure. I haven’t forgotten that day, that audience, those eager listeners and how wonderful it was to have the company in an otherwise lonely task. They are all grown up now and have families of their own. I doubt that they remember that day the way I do. I was the one who had to put the chairs back around the long table. I treasure that memory though. It is one of the ones which hasn’t left my consciousness. I lost a lot of memories over the years. At one point I lost so many memories I wasn’t sure of the way to the grocery store and I couldn’t remember my own phone number nor house address. I stumbled over the children’s names and ages. I piled the children into the car and backed out of the driveway. I drove down the main road and it all looked unfamiliar. I started to panic but didn’t want the children to know. We drove around, street after street. Finally the children helped me and I pretended that it was a game. One day we drove from dentist to dentist because I couldn’t remember which dentist I had made the appointment with. Each office looked just as unfamiliar as the last and I was sure it must be this one. We went in and announced our arrival to much confusion at the front desk and eventually annoyance at which point we decided it was best to leave. We never did have a dentist appointment that day. None of the dentists had us on their schedules or in their files. I felt like an alien for sure, that day. Or perhaps more like a time traveler. And to think that I was entrusted with four beautiful children. I didn’t have trouble figuring it out at home. There were always books. We could take a stack of books and place them on the coffee table and just start reading together. I loved books. We studied them, the pictures in them, the words in them, and the lives of those who wrote them. I’m not sure exactly when I started to pick up a pencil or pen but it was during that time of severe memory loss that I was encouraged to start writing. It was thought that writing would stimulate the memory and writing did that. It is still doing that. Writing is opening the closed doors. I read something remarkable yesterday about Laura Ingalls Wilder. Her daughter Rose encouraged her to write about her childhood. She was close to my age at the time, maybe a little older. She couldn’t remember many things, especially since she was only two when they lived in the ‘Big Woods’ so she said that when she went back in her memory as far as she could and left her mind there for awhile, it would go further back and bring things out of the dimness of the past that were beyond her ordinary remembrance. Paraphrased from "Inside Laura’s Little House” by Carolyn Strom Collins and Christina Wyss Eriksson. Page 95. What an interesting concept. One problem for me was that there was too much pain in my past and conjuring up memories opened up the wounds. But writing most certainly helped. It helped to unlock doors. There is still a lot of good memories locked in the archives and a lot of pain has already been diffused. Every once in awhile a new one comes back and it’s like opening a brand new book that is written about me. 

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,040 words.

Procrastination

It’s one of those days when everything begins off right. Don’t you love those days? It really shouldn’t have been easy to get up because I was dealing with a sneezy nose all night. I had to get up and deal with it at one point. Then I tried to be really quiet so that I don’t wake up Mark who really does have to be up at five. Trying to keep a sneezy nose quiet is not a relaxing activity. I find my muscles all tensed up and have to work on relaxing them. I found my tea tree oil and dropped a bunch onto a hankie. I was too stuffed up to smell it and that stuff packs a punch. But I could feel the cool on the back of my throat and I knew that the power of the tea tree oil was at work. I soon fell asleep but had to roll over at some point because it didn’t feel good to lay like that all night and then my really sensitive nose started to act up again. I’m wide awake, trying to be really quiet while I throw one tissue after another over the edge of the bed. Finally I must have slept again because the alarm was going off. I have a back up alarm set for myself, you can do that on the i-phone, it’s great, in case I end up asleep again. I woke up with my backup alarm and was awake at just the break of dawn, which is when all the chickens like to be getting up. So everything began as it should. I took my allergy medicine and sat at my computer and saw my emails had an email from: Web Editor ICL - Rx list from the Institute for Children’s Literature. The place where I did my writing course years ago. I love their emails. I always read them and sometimes print them out so that I can read them some more. I didn’t get very far down the email when I noticed that a website they had been referring to recently was up and running. 

http://kristiholl.net/writers-blog/

I couldn’t help it and clicked. Then I started reading her blog. I read and read and read. It was amazing. Motivation, willpower, bad habits, reasons, excuses, goals, mini habits and so much more. It was wonderful to read about what other writers deal with and how they overcome. We all struggle with the same things. Somehow I ended up on a website applying for a writing job with a Christian booklet company. I read a story about a lady who is inspiring Christian writers and her story brought me emotional tears. That was some great writing. I finally clicked over to my program, Scrivener. Opened a blank page and started writing. It isn’t early morning hours. It is light out. I’ve eaten breakfast. Chloe is at her desk and I just heard the washer end. So stuff has been happening and I’m writing. I’m still inspired and my fingers are still writing what ever they want to write. What I think is wonderful about it is that they still know how to type clearly even with all this going on. It’s about training my mind and fingers to work together. It isn’t dark in the room anymore and my mind is working just fine. You can laugh here if you want to. I did. I was going to sit here and write about procrastination. We’ve all heard how bad that is and we all know that horrible feeling you get when you are doing it and you know you are doing it and you can’t stop doing it to start doing what you are supposed to be doing. But there may be a silver lining in the procrastination. It may be that one is expected to be doing something that one doesn’t really want to do and there may be a really good reason for it. Maybe I just need to look at myself and say, ‘Hey, why are you putting this or that off?’ Maybe there is a logically good reason. Maybe I can learn more about what is right for me. It’s a good thing to get rid of guilty feelings. Doing everything promptly and timely and perfectly all the time. Is that who I am? Is that even who I want to be? Sounds like grounds for super self-righteousness. It’s not me. I’m glad it’s not me. I learned so much this morning while procrastinating. I’m so glad I did it. I even applied for a possible writing job, although I’m hardly spiritual enough to write for a Christian magazine or Christian children’s publications, but you just never know. They may have an assignment that works for me. So about procrastination. I’m not going to fight it any more. I’m not going to feel bad about it. I’m going to go with it. There just may be a beautiful reason why I procrastinated. There may be something God wanted me to see or know and I can be peaceful about knowing that I followed the lead.

I am learning something else new. I am discovering that once you open the doors of your passion, in this case writing, you will always find a way. You won’t be able to stop. You will be able to write in the early morning hours, in the mid morning with school girl questions and readings from her of her writings. In the middle of the day, quickly on the i-phone or Kindle, in the car even with those inefficient tools, (not if you drive, don’t write on your i-phone or kindle while you are driving, I don’t drive), in the boat, even in the evenings with paper and pencil. You will be driven to write once you have begun. You can even take short breaks and get back to it. I’ve been taking weekends off, but I couldn’t stand to take more time away than that. I wouldn’t want to go back to not being in the habit of writing.

P.S. I can’t seem to write through a hot flash. My fingers can’t remember where the keys are and the words get all jumbled up.

Elizabeth Williams - daily writing exercise, 1,050 words.

The Conduit

So now this one thousand words is being used as a diary? I really hope not. My plan is to come up with something fresh everyday. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m late. Even when I’ve overslept and let the poor chickens wait half an hour to be let out. It’s at times like this that my day starts off with guilt and other bad feelings, like dejection. It’s not rejection, it’s dejection. Is that even a word? I just looked it up for me. Yes, it’s a word. It means: lowness of spirits. It’s not other people putting me down, rejection. It’s me putting me down, dejection. That’s sad. Just really sad. But it happens. It happens to me at a drop of the hat and I’m sure it happens to almost everybody sometime. It happened to me yesterday. I reread my new story before bedtime. I felt dejection. This isn’t very good. It isn’t very good at all. That’s how my thoughts went. How can I be putting this stuff out there like this? Went through my head. Like a wind which gently but firmly comes out of the sky directly above me in a spiral down-wards motion. It pushes me down until I am quite deeply stuck in the dirt. And I mean deep. This wind called dejection can push us so deep that we can’t see because we are like a little rock down in the ground, all covered up. It just keeps it’s pressure on me. Then it gives me a little extra push. I feel like I’m going to be mortally humiliated in front of my family. I feel sure that I will be laughed at and mocked. The wind of dejection thinks it’s got me now because shame is a huge tool it uses to silence me and it has worked in the past. It has gotten me to pack up all my journals and lock them in the trunk. It even got me to throw them all out once. It got me to throw away my writing course. It got me to eliminate writing tools. But it can’t stop me. Because I love to write and I have dug those journals out of the trash time after time and moved them around the house closer to my daily work spaces, farther away, closer again, back and forth. I fight back. I always fight back. Dejection is the enemy. It wants to silence me and take away my talent. But I’m angry at it. It’s just trying to shut me up and I won’t be beat down. God is my friend and strength and He gives me tools to fight back with. The more I write, the stronger I become and the more I read the stronger I become. I can’t help but be humble, because I’m truly just a beginner and my talent undeveloped. I know that there will always be those who are better, world’s better. It doesn’t matter what I do, there will always be those who do it better than me. But with writing it differs only in that no one can write what is inside of me. The skill with which I write will develop and grow with use. The confidence will come with practice. Dejection can kiss my ass because I’m still writing and I’m blogging it and putting it out there in spite. It may be late in the day. I may have messed up on my duties this morning and be really late for breakfast, but I’m writing. Dejection tries to ruin all the good parts of my life. It has tried for as long as I can remember. Keeping me from doing what I truly want and being what I truly am. Making me feel silly about being me. Making me feel like all the good stuff is for everybody else but not for me. If you really think about it, it makes no sense at all.

What I found out since I’ve been bravely writing and sharing with the world, is that I have the best sisters in the world. My oldest sister inspires me everyday. She works really hard all day, every day. I’ve never had to work as hard physically as my oldest sister works. She looks forward to coming home from work and relaxing in the evening to read what I have written that day. Makes me cry just thinking about it. Pushes me to write. Pushes me to write better. To give her something worth reading. I can’t quit now. No matter how dejected I’m tempted to feel. I have to fight. I have to win in the fight against dejection. I have to overcome. I have to do it for her and for all my sisters but mostly for me.

I have a picture in my mind from a creepy movie I watched a long time ago. A hand sticking out of the dirt and the body pulling itself out of the ground. That’s what I’m seeing. That’s me not staying down, not staying dejected. That’s me.

Actually what I felt when I finished reading my story was emotional. I was moved to tears. I felt a connection with the lady. I don’t even know her name. I know the names of her children, but I don’t know her name. I don’t know what she looks like, nor the color of her hair, eyes or skin. I don’t know what style she likes, what kind of car she drives. I don’t know what country she lives in or what language she speaks. I don’t even know what her age is. But I’m bound to find out. Perhaps there is something in the lady’s story which we can all relate to in some way. I don’t know. The story is actually about a house. I just read something by ‘Carlos Cooper’. He said that “The story isn’t mine. I’m just the conduit”. He said God brings him the story.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,007 words

The House - 3

I arrived home exhausted and emotionally drained. I had only a few days to make all the necessary arrangements. The small apartment was in as much disarray as possible, it seemed. I chose my steps carefully in order to avoid stepping on something or tripping. There was a bad smell greeting me and I cringed. What was I going to have to face? The children both slept on the living-room floor, the television on. Their father dozing off on the couch. Bowls of food lay here and there and much of it spilled and old. I had been gone for one week. I picked up my daughter Greta, careful not to wake her and carried her to her bed. Next I picked up little Teddy and placed him in his bed. One week was a long time to be away from these little treasures and my heart broke for them. I decided not to do this again. Not to leave them behind. I didn’t feel the same way about their father. I wanted to shower from the long trip but one look at the bathroom and I changed my mind. Tomorrow will be a new day. I changed into something comfortable and lay down for the few remaining hours of night, too tired to think, too tired to cry, I fell asleep. The next few days I cleaned and washed laundry and packed. I packed only the things which belonged to the children and I. Our clothes, the children’s toys and our important things. Things we love. My journals and pen and pencil collections. The kids books. I couldn’t fit their lovely bikes in the car so I promised them that I would find new ones for them soon. I packed the pictures. My Grandfather had loved taking pictures of the places he had seen on his travels. Several of them he had enlarged and put into beautiful frames, and they hung on my walls. They were works of art. I took them. I also had a few paintings of my own which I was not going to leave behind. There were a few things in the kitchen which I wanted and needed. The children’s tableware. Eating can be so challenging for a child that I always felt using familiar tableware was as essential to good nutrition as the food itself. I was certain that they had been fed like animals for the last week since the little bowls and plates with the matching utensils were still clean and put away in their places when I came home. I had taken the bowls out that first morning and that’s when I realized that they had lived on a diet of popcorn and fast food. That’s where a whole lot of the mess came from, fast food. All the useful things which could be bought again I didn’t pack. Those days the children clung to me. Where I went, they went. From room to room they were my shadows on either side. The car filled up quickly and soon there was barely going to be room for us. Apparently they hadn’t liked the new lady much. She had come to spend the night when I was gone. But only one night. She wasn’t very fond of the children or my home. They had cried an awful lot. Their father had not meant for me to find out about the lady and was in a deep lot of shit on the phone with me. But I knew. I had known. How could I not. I had had a long talk with Aunt Melinda about it. The reality of it not really hitting me because for now I had too much to do.

I hadn’t seen him since that first night when I came home. He slept on the couch, but he was gone in the morning. I could tell that he came home at night when I was asleep with Greta in her bed. He didn’t stay long and I didn’t get up to talk to him. I had nothing to say. I just wanted this to be over. Like a bad dream. You wake up and try to change the tone of the dream for fear of it continuing on when you go back to sleep. You roll over or get up and drink some milk, eat something if it’s a really bad dream. But you fear that when you lay back down the dream will continue. I wouldn’t let him see my tears. He had no right to peer into the heart he had so mercilessly broken. I had no time for all this right now anyway, with Grandma so weak and frail. She needed me and I needed her. I wanted to sit beside her and look at her beautiful, wise and peaceful face. I wanted to drink her in as if to keep her with me forever. I wanted time, time which had been stolen from me. I wanted to share her with Greta and Teddy. I want them to remember her, even just a piece of who she is. I want them to know this great lady, to be able to tell their children that they sat beside her. That they remember her. I want to shield them from this horror that is divorce. That’s why I didn’t get up. That’s why there weren’t any words in the night. No yelling. No name calling. No hateful, evil wishes to take back. The car knows how I feel. The car knows all. The car has been my sanctuary, my church, my meeting place with Jesus. My place where I can unload all. My safe place. But today my car will be my angel and carry us, myself, Greta and Teddy safely North. North to Grandma and Aunt Melinda. North to a new life a new place and new memories. There will be papers, and details and bridges to cross. But time will give us grace and a chance to be who we were born to be and love who we were born to love. Time will make us strong.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, The House - chapter 3, 1,022 words

Previous chapters of The House:   The House 2 , The House 1

To read the next chapter:  The House 4 , The House 5 , The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

A Boy Named Richard

A long time ago, in a far away town, lived a little boy named Richard. Who is this little boy named Richard and why is he important enough to be writing about? What happened to him? What is it? What did he do? Why are we even talking about him? Stories used to start that way all the time. Curiosity was raised with the mention of a far away place and time and a boy or girl, man or woman no one knew. Some how it helped. Putting yourself into another world, another time. Imagining yourself in another life. We still do this. We still play pretend. Novels are all about pretend. We learned from the old tales. Sometimes they taught a moral understanding. Sometimes they taught about courage and other times how sheer luck or magic might intervene at anytime and end all this suffering. It’s a kind of hope. Stories today tend to go more towards finding your own inner strengths and answers to life’s troubles. Life’s troubles haven’t really changed that much we just dress them up differently. We have guns today instead of swords. We have drugs instead of magic potions, which is all really the same thing except today people poison themselves instead of their unsuspecting victims. Very often the really special stories aren’t that far away and times not as long ago like ‘Little House on the Prairie’. Some times the story is about a mouse or a rabbit and the adventures from their point of view. Some times magical things happening takes one far away, although the story is in the present time. Writers found a way to take the reality of a child’s experience and turn it into something fantastical and far away, yet keep that closeness to it. ‘Stuart Little’ is such a story. Regular, though eccentric, people adopting a little mouse and treating him like a member of the family. Sometimes my daughter sets a tiny place at the table for an imaginary Stuart. He even gets a special spot to relax and watch a movie with her. Usually it’s much too close to the screen. I don’t really have a story about a little boy named Richard, but I might some day. Now that I’ve written that much down, I’d like to find out more about him. I’d like to find out where he lives and what period of time. What were they doing back then. How did they live and what is so interesting about him that we should be writing about it. Other writers have brought to us stories about children long ago, who dealt with monsters, and giants and mean step-mothers and hard work. The same things children today deal with. Well they don’t all have mean step-mothers. Sometimes it’s a mean teacher or a mean neighbor, or kid. Someone is mean and we’ve all got to find a way to deal with this stuff. We do all have some kind of monster, imaginary or not. And giant is just another word for challenge. Anyway little Richard from long ago had all of them. He had so many giants and monsters and mean people to deal with, but he was also very creative. He had a wonderful way of interpreting life and dealing with it. He had important decisions to make, like would he give in to the pressures or stand up tall and proud. Would he be what someone wanted him to be or would he be himself and be really good at it. Would he know what he wanted? Would he know who he was? There are a lot of serious questions woven into the tales told to children. Children love to consider serious questions and come up with really smart solutions. But they aren’t anything like the kind of questions we think they may have. That’s why it’s so difficult to mix adult with child. Really the adult needs to become a child again in order to mix with the child. In order to write for a child one needs to be a child. For example, I love to have the floors and table tops in my home, cleared off and accessible. My youngest daughter is a maker of worlds and uses up every possible square inch with buildings and lego’s, homes made of plastic, homes made of cardboard, rock city etc. I come to find out there are people living in those places. Am I the ogre who demands them all removed? Am I the evil step-mother who demands the floors to be cleaned again? The rock city was fabulous, it was however in the doorway to another useful room in the house and I was the giant who crushed the city with it’s big feet. I’m also the witch who picks up whole homes and moves them to other countries. Or perhaps I’m the cyclone which picked up the house. There is so much to know about all this. The more I investigate it the more I remember about my own childhood. I was the third oldest child in a family with ten children. My usual job in the family was to play with the children. I wasn’t capable enough to have a job in meal preparation. I was too slow at most important jobs which really required some amount of speed in order for a home of this size to function well. The most useful place for me was to play with the children. Later I went on to have children of my own. I have spent many hours as a mother, playing with my children. Building, researching, going on adventures and reading. Housework and the business of mealtimes was also a type of play for me although I had no training in actual usefulness I was able to invent my own methods and draw from memories of what I had observed as a child. I did have other chores sometimes, but can you imagine having the job of playing with the children when you are yet a child? Priceless.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,013 words.

Lucky Me

The sun is just beginning to rise. I will go and open the doors to the different coops out back. The back porch, which is a new room I am in love with, is full of ripe tomatoes. The first jars of summer canning have sealed and adorn the small table. Salsa. The sunrise glows orange on the horizon. It is raining. It is the second day of rain after a long dry spell. I’m happy about the rain even though it makes messy mud for me to walk through. The dog is wet and stays on the back porch which has a nice floor for getting mud and water on. I’m typing this story out and I get a nice surprise from my husband. He comes home for a second cup of coffee and even though I got up too late to kiss him goodbye this morning, I get to give him a kiss now. His work is only one mile down the road. I suppose I could be putting a load of laundry in the washer and setting up my work station for canning tomatoes but I’m not, I’m typing, I’m writing. When I’ve finished my typing and posted it to my blog, then I start my day, but not until then. After I am done with writing I feel like the most challenging part of my day is behind me and it’s all downhill from here. It is a wonderful feeling which is powerfully changing me. I am one of the lucky ones. I have the peace and freedom to choose my daily routine. The garden has been blessed this year, not with everything I wanted, but with plenty of what we need to get us through the year. What we aren’t able to grow we can purchase from a local farmer or grocery store. I wake in the mornings to only the hum of the fridge or the whir of the air conditioner. The roosters, we can’t forget to mention them, but I can’t really hear them inside the house. Everyday when I wake there is plenty for me to do.

Today there is thunder and rain. The thunder is harmless. I am not threatened by it. I am not experiencing any hurricane or tornado. There is no noise of rockets nor explosions of war. My drinking water is clean and pure, straight from my well, through a series of filters which we installed in our home. My children are well and healthy, except for Debbie, but she is healed and in paradise. Chloe is waking up and getting her gears going for a new day at home school. My husband loves me in his quiet unspoken sort of way. He stays busy from sunup to sundown. Not busy, busy, but continuously moving, working, helping, fixing, building. People come and go when he is here. They bring things to him and he fixes them and they come back and he shows them what he did and they are happy. We bow our heads together at mealtimes and take turns saying the blessing. On Sunday we drive to church, a little church with a steeple. Yes, we are the lucky ones.

I heard recently that oil was spilled into the Ohio River and is ruining it. I asked someone who faithfully watches the news about it. I had to ask because I haven’t watched television for a very long time but was wondering if this oil spill had been in the news, or was I the only one aware of it. It seems pretty big deal to me. At first my friend drew a blank. Then I mentioned that it didn’t happen today and she said that it was yesterday’s news. The way she said that alarmed me. It’s not important because it was yesterday. But it is our Ohio River. Seems to me that it is just as important today as the day they ruined it. But today there is new news. And I remember when I used to watch the news that it was one thing after another. A tragedy in one person’s life, a death, perhaps a murder, reported on and then moving right on to the next news. Maybe news about where a celebrity had their wedding or something silly like that. War in one country, complaining in another. At any point in every day, someone is hurting and children are crying from neglect and abuse, some are hungry and someone is killing someone and countries are at war and corporations are lying to get around the laws and people are unaware that what they are eating is poison and children are afraid in the schools and other people are planning disasters. Some places are experiencing fires and some floods. Some places there are tidal waves, tsunami’s and earthquakes. Really important things happening to real people all over the world. Christians are being persecuted. Even the environment is being a bit more destroyed each day. As I go into this day I am aware that there is suffering all around us in the world and that I am blessed and I am thankful. I am allowed to sing, and so I will. Not that it’s much to listen to, but with all that is going on, someone needs to sing, someone needs to dance. Someone needs to smile and say kind words. Someone should, and that someone is ever so lucky me. To be happy and thankful and kind and share the same. Is that what my job is? I think so. There must be place in this world for good. It isn’t bad everywhere. I’m not ignoring what is happening everywhere, I’m praying for the hurt and the suffering, the cancer patients and the hopeless. I have not been given the job of bearing the weight of the world, that’s Jesus job. I’ve been blessed to bring a ray of sunshine, a word of thankfulness, a flicker of hope, an encouraging word. I am one of the lucky ones.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,007 words.

Chloe's Style

I’m sitting here at my computer with not one clue as to what I should write about. I have been thinking all morning and hoping it would come to me as it does sometimes. Sometimes I look at the program icon and something begins to come to me and I can hardly get it open and a new page started fast enough. Today I waited. I deleted emails and checked fb which is a huge taboo. I also checked a website for little girl clothes to see what’s trending, and sure enough it’s that one kind of dress which Chloe hates. Chloe has a style she is drawn to and it has nothing to do with trending styles. It has nothing to do with what anyone else is wearing or advertising because she doesn’t get out much. Her style has everything to do with how a dress makes her feel on the inside and who it makes her feel like on the outside. How competent it makes her feel, how bossy, how creative, how studious, how adventurous. She does not want to play princess anymore. I think that was ages three to six. Sometimes she likes to play fancy lady. You know, when a lady gets dressed up for tea. It may involve kid gloves and a bustley dress, a scarf and some baubley necklaces. A tea lady is dressed properly in lady attire and is serving tea to her guests. She speaks with an English accent, in proper English. She brings out the best dishes and tableware. She seats all the stuffed animals around the coffee table. Then there is the pirate, and the adventurer, the farmer and cowgirl, the pioneer woman. All of these must be attired. The time for feeling special and worth saving has changed into the time for hard work, adventure and saving others. We have the archaeologist and the builder. The painter and designer. Her poor Grandmother. Quite a few times lately I’ve had to tell her that Chloe will not wear those kind of dresses and it’s kind of a waste to keep buying them for her. I’m careful to ask if there is a chance she could return them or give them to someone else and that I’m sure they weren’t cheap and I hate to see them wasted. Really I wish she would bring her catalog over here and just let Chloe pick them out. That hasn’t happened yet. I look at the pile of clothes set aside for Good Will and wonder which lucky girl is going to get those brand new, never worn before clothes. It’s not that Chloe is picky. Most of the clothes we have bought her are from Good Will. She falls in love with some of the most unlikely but really cool outfits put together from inexpensive sources. We have the studious, I’m ready for school look which happens a lot lately since we’ve started back to our home school. It’s what helps her to feel the business of school work and getting things done. She changes at 10:00am to go and do chores. Then she changes back to get back to school mode. When school is out for the day she changes again into whatever it is she will be until dinner time. Some days she gets all dressed up for dinner. A velvet dress or lacy with proper shoes. I’m not sure where today’s style for this age group is coming from because I am not in the know about these sort of things. You might say that I have been out of the loop for a few years. I have noticed that the styles for girls this age tend to be toward the suggestive side, as opposed to the imaginative side. Little girls suggesting that they are big girls. Not on purpose but because that is what is available to them. Portraying perhaps an icon in the entertainment industry. I don’t know what girls this age are watching on television. Chloe doesn’t watch television. She doesn’t have much influence from the entertainment industry because we want her to discover who she is without any of that. She has a couple of favorite shows on Netflix but her time on that is limited. We have a movie night which we look forward to each week and generally watch together as a family, with pizza and popcorn. It is also our ice cream night. Usually we are ready for bed so that if the movie ends late we can just brush our teeth and pop into bed. All this being said, Chloe is still quite concerned about style. Chloe’s style. It is a wonderful thing for me as her mother to escort this imaginative and completely free child out in public. I’m thinking ‘oh, dear’ and her father raises his eyebrows as we get into the car. Recently she was a pioneer woman and had to have a bustle. She pulled one skirt after another on under her long dress and tied the belt. She really needed that bustle feel. We looked at her in that way since she also wore a scarf on her head. She was ready to go. We didn’t say anything. She enjoyed herself so much. Often when we are out I see other people respond to her, she brings a warm smile to many a face, especially in the proper lady attire, which includes a large brimmed hat with flowers. Her distance from today’s trends is so great it’s refreshing. Mostly though she just wears a pair of shorts or jeans and a T-shirt, just like any other almost 9 year old. The way clothes make you feel is an important part of growing up and discovering who you are and what you will do. Don’t get me started on foot wear. We’ve got cowboy boots, fancy boots, winter boots, rubber boots, black school girl shoes, silver glittery shoes, running shoes and sneakers. There are all colors of flip-flops and the favorite of all, bare feet.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,010 words

Book Review 8/20/14

Here's a quick look at what we picked up at the library yesterday.  I always find it interesting to see what Chloe wants to read.  

Here's a new book.

Nate the Great Where Are You?

by Marjorie Weinman Sharmat and Mitchell Sharmat

Illustrated by Jody Wheeler

Nate the Great and his dog, Sludge, have solved countless cases. For once, they would like to take a break from detective work. Especially since new cases—cases they do not want—await them: Rosamond wants to track down a walking turnip, Annie wants to find Fang’s missing canine toothpaste, Claude wants to locate something special (whatever that means), and Harry wants to solve the mystery of the dog with four tails. Everyone demands Nate’s attention, but all Nate wants is to escape. And after trying on disguises so that he and Sludge can go unrecognized, the sleuthing duo try to hide out in the woods. It’s not long before they hear familiar voices shouting, “Nate the Great, where are you?” Is it asking too much for the pancake-eating detective and his bone-chewing partner to get a day off?

This is a chapter book.  It has eight chapters and plenty of words.  It is a great book to get kids across the bridge from picture books to chapter books.  I love the mystery and problem solving creativity in it.

published by Random House Children's Books 2014, Nate the Great Where Are You? is one of a long list of Nate the Great books.  Also by Marjorie Weinman Sharmat and Mitchell Sharmat are the Olivia Sharp stories.

Here is another chapter book.

Penny And Her Marble

by Kevin Henkes

In the third easy-to-read book about Penny the mouse, written by Caldecott Medalist and bestselling author Kevin Henkes, Penny finds a beautiful marble on her neighbor's lawn and must decide whether or not to keep it. 

This book is a Beginning Reading Level 1 book.  Chloe is definitely drawn to the pictures and simple story line.  It is colorfully illustrated and by the same author as a book about Owen which we have.

Published by HarperCollins Publishers a GreenWillow Book, 2013.

Also by Kevin Henkes:

Lilly

Owen

Chrysanthemum

Wemberly

Here's a mini encyclopedia on cats and dogs complete with an index and colorful photographs.

Cats vs. Dogs

by Elizabeth Carney.

Chocolate or vanilla? Creamy peanut butter or crunchy? Cats or dogs? On some matters in life, every kid must take a stance. Ever since the first youngster in history had a pet, cats vs. dogs has been a hotly debated issue at recesses and lunch tables worldwide. Which one's better? Smarter? This reader presents the facts in fun and informative fashion. Kids will love the stimulating Level 3 text as they decide the answer to this question for themselves.

This is a National Geographic Society book, 2011

Kids love to get the facts, especially from a book written just for them.  This is a great book for fun and facts.

We are always fond of a Jan Brett book.

Here is:

The Umbrella

Written and illustrated by the talented Jan Brett.

Jan Brett's New York Times bestselling picture book The Umbrella has all the rollicking fun of the woodland animals that crowd into a mitten in the snow in The Mitten. Only this time it's in a lush cloud forest as one by one, tree frog, toucan, kinkajou, baby tapir, quetzal, monkey, and jaguar crowd into an open, upside down banana umbrella until a tiny hummingbird lands and they all fall out.

Rich in illustrations this is a delightful book.

Publisher, G. P. Putnam's Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, New York, 2004

Also by Jan Brett;

The Mitten

And Last but not least,

Another Daisy book;

Come Along, Daisy!

by Jane Simmons

Beautiful pictures and darling story line.  This is one from a collection of lovable books about a duck named Daisy.

Daisy's mother warns her to stay close, but there are so many distractions in the pond! After all, there are fireflies to chase and lily pads to jump on. A sudden, scary noise teaches Daisy to heed her mother's words. The author's colorful illustrations will capture children's attention as they enjoy the adventures of this playful duck. Text copyright 2004 Lectorum Publications, Inc.

Also by Jane Simmons;

Daisy and the Moon

The House - 2

Inside, the house smelled musty. I had entered through the side porch. It was cool and dark. The shades were down and I pulled them up to let in the natural light of the day. I walked through the house, opening the shades and pulling back drapes as I went. It was dusty and I sneezed. There were rooms after rooms and all of them had that abandoned smell. You can’t smell it when you live in it because it is the smell of silence. It is the smell of a lack of movement of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The smell of stillness. The only activity being a few bluebottles or green flies in the windows but most of them had died by the looks of it. You can only smell that smell when you walk into a room which has not seen life for awhile. You go on vacation and stay away a few nights and when you come back your house has begun to have that smell. Once you are in it again you disturb every corner with your movements and that smell goes away. I walked slowly around each room, careful not to disturb the dust which was quite thick. I was quite sure that there was no more dust falling and that all that was in the air was now on every surface. I imagined what each room was for and who had moved around in it. What they may have done and who they were. This room was obviously a reading room as books lined the shelves and several books lay on tables and even some piled on the floor as though it were too much effort to rise and put it back on the shelf. There was one book still open and laid on the seat of the Queen Anne chair. Perhaps that was Grandma’s chair. There was no television in any of the rooms on the lower floor. I was surprised. I thought that perhaps there would be a couple of Lazy-boy chairs together in one of the rooms and a television. I expected to find a couple of chairs set together with piles of things gathered up around and pills and hospital type stuff gathered around. But I kept walking through the house and I didn’t find anything like that. There was a large room surrounded by windows on the south side of the house. It had several planters with what looked like the remains of plants. The conservatory. I remembered it. It was obvious that no one had been in here for a long time. There was a large comfortable chair in the room. I remember sitting on Grandpas knee in this room while he told tales of places far away and jungles teaming with life and how he had gone to live with a tribe in the jungle and learn their ways and tell them about a God who is over all gods, who loves them and cares. He told of plants and animals. I remembered how captivating his stories were and how I had imagined being in a jungle when I was in that room. It was a beautiful room, round like a semi-circle with a door at each end of the long wall. Grandpa’s chair in the middle. I walked on through the conservatory and ended up in the kitchen. It was a large kitchen and there were several things out on the counters as though it had been abandoned quickly. There was a table in the middle of the room and an armchair in one corner. I couldn’t turn the lights on or use the appliances since there had been no electric service to the house for quite some time. I dared not open the fridge but knew I would have to do that eventually. For now I didn’t want to disturb anything. I had planned to get what I came for and spend the night at a nearby hotel, but now I found myself changing my mind. This feeling of being at home was so strong. I felt comfortable here even though it was all so strange. I wanted to see everything and touch everything and explore again. The stairs wound around a beautiful mosaic floor. It was even darker upstairs but I found the first door and opened it and let the light in the window. I went through the upstairs rooms and let light in all the windows, then I went up another flight of stairs and let light in up there as well. Back downstairs in my grandparents room I sat on the bed. History crowded into my head as I looked around the room. The history of the people who had lived here and worked here. The children who were born here right in this room and the family who had died here and the tears and joys of generations growing and living together and being a family. My own tears mixing into the history of all the people I belonged to, people I didn’t know and those I did. I wanted to know more about them. I wished I had really known my Grandmother. The last few weeks of holding on to her had been tiring and bewildering. I lay down and let the tears flow. I don’t know how long I slept, but I still had my coat on and it had grown dark outside. I got my phone out and checked the time. It was the wee hours and I could sleep some more. I took my coat off and lay it over me, my shoes on the floor my phone in my hand and I slept. When I woke again the sun was just beginning to rise. I could see through the window that it would be a nice day for a drive. The town wasn’t too far away and I can get some coffee there before I leave. I will have to get the utilities turned on before I head out. I had put a few granola bars in my purse and there were some snacks still in the car from the long drive. I sat outside on the hood of my car and watched the sun rise over the fields while I ate an apple and a granola bar. It was beautiful.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,058 words.

Previous chapter of The House:   The House 1

To read the next chapters:  The House 3 , The House 4 , The House 5 , The House 6, The House 7, The House 8

Where We Lived

It’s interesting how a home, a property which we knew as children and young adults can have a grounding effect on us. It can be calming and peaceful to return to a place which we once knew and interacted with. Perhaps it was our home or a friends home or a field where we played. It could be the school, perhaps for some people who’s schooling was a good experience. It could be a town, a type of lifestyle once lived. It is always some place in the past where character was developed and understandings formed. It may not have always been a pleasant situation but it was ours, or it was where we were. I remember the house we lived in in England when I was young. I don’t know very much at all about why we were there or what my parents were doing. I remember being told that my father was a telephone operator for awhile and that my sister would pick up the phone so that she could talk to him. I don’t remember that, I was only told it. I don’t remember the other places we lived before that, I was three when we moved to that house. I remember other things about it, things that mattered to me, things about that house which involved me. There were eight of us children at that time and when any one of us travels back to England we always try to drive by that house and stop to take a look. Something about seeing it, even though it is so changed is healing and peaceful. We take pictures and send them around to the family. The house was called ‘The Laurels’. There are other places in our family but many families had one main childhood home. Usually a family will move from home to home as they work on finding the place best suited to them. Perhaps they will rent at first and move to different rentals trying to find out which home best suits their style. Some day they will buy their home and settle down. It may be difficult for some children to identify with a childhood place if there were too many moves. It may well be a school or a park or a vacation spot which is that place for them. I raised the children in a small house at the edge of a factory town in the heart of a farming community. Later we moved to the place we are now. It was a difficult move for them and they still feel connected to that first house. They have a lot of memories there. I also took them to Canada in the summertime where they most likely have some great memories. Now they are building lives of their own and raising children of their own. Their children will be forming their own ties. They are forming attachments to places and homes. Places which will draw them back when they are older, to discover something about themselves which only their inner child knows. This is what I find happening when I begin to write. I find myself writing about places I once knew. I’m not writing about the home I now have. I write about places my childhood knew and the feelings which arise from that childhood. I am finding out something about myself by reaching down deep into those memories. I feel a grounding, a peace and security in connecting with a place from long ago where I was free. Free from responsibility and care. Free from adulthood. The mind processes everything differently in childhood, being immune yet to the concerns of this world. Money is not more than a toy to a child. A child’s purse may have a coin and a rock and a piece of ribbon and each are equally valuable to the child. If asked to keep only one thing, it very well may be the rock which is kept. Whether the family is rich or poor makes no difference to the child who lives whatever is expected. I had one play dress, one school uniform and one Sunday outfit when I was a child. I had school shoes and play shoes. I didn’t know what other people did because we never owned a television and all the children at school dressed in the same uniform. We didn’t get new clothes every year. I didn’t question this because it didn’t matter. It wasn’t even the actual house which was important to me. The closet at the bottom of the stairs though friendly and large during the day was brimming with monsters at night and the basement was the scariest place of all. Even the rats at the back of the yard didn’t scare me like the basement. It was the business involved in growing up and living with the others in the home which was important. The games we played, the battles we fought. The banister I slid down, only to be greeted by a wooden spoon and my father at the bottom. The short flight and thrill were worth every stripe. There were other homes that hold the same and maybe more for me, since that home. I don’t really think consciously about these places, but when I write I find myself digging around in the memories of the walls of these places. Pulling out the feelings and convictions of my childhood soul. A place where hopes and dreams were bountiful. Where the whole future is ahead and yet unknown and possibilities soared. A place and time in which I had not yet been crushed and broken. A time where I was me completely. A time when I was proud to be me. A beginning not yet governed by the voices of culture and religious views, where everything I wanted to be was possible. That’s where I keep finding myself when I write. Perhaps I’m looking for something there. Perhaps I’m looking for the me I was meant to be.

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,003 words.

Lost Words

Lost. I write that like it’s a whole sentence because sometimes it is. It’s not loss. Loss is a different subject entirely which has to do with grief. It’s lost. Lost is an experience I’ve had a lot in my life. Not me so much, I wasn’t lost, although that was questionable at times, I always knew where I was. Perhaps other people thought I was lost. God always knew where I was and so did I. I got lost in Buffalo NY one time. I was driving to Canada with my four younger children and I missed the exit and took a different one thinking I could back track. It wasn’t that simple and the streets I found myself on weren’t on the map. This was well before the days of cell phones and GPS.

I’ve had the experience a lot where something is lost, reaching for something which isn’t there any more and turning the house upside down looking for it only to realize that I was looking for something which belonged to me in a different time of my life. I spent a good part of my thirties and forties looking for things. Every once in awhile I go through everything and get rid of stuff. A lot of people do that. Then you miss it and wonder where it is, perhaps forgetting that it went to Good Will. Maybe if you are like me you search and search for it. But I always end up again with too much stuff. Moving is a time when I always parted with a lot of things. Some things I regretted getting rid of later. I have decided not to move again.

Things are important. Don’t listen to people who tell you that things aren’t important. Things connect us to each other and we use things to communicate love and care. We don’t live here on this earth without things. Losing things can be very upsetting and unsettling. Children relate to the things around them and are sensitive to things being moved or removed. Things are important. Usually the sentiment behind a thing is the important part. It is what connects us to memories and other people in our lives. I have a china cabinet full of things which conjure up memories of childhoods lived with me and the love and creativity of little ones. Yes, things are important. Losing things can be considered loss. Things can also have a lot to do with our emotional well-being.

Losing words is a different type of loss. When words are lost they may never be retrieved and can not be replaced. I’ve had the experience of discovering some words in just the order to inspire a whole world of creative thoughts and not captured them on paper or i-note and then lose them completely by the time I get to a paper and pencil. The whole thing is lost then. It was something special which can never be found again. It was the arrangement of a few words which conjured up a whole library of books from ones soul. It was that arrangement which expressed the exact balance of expression. It was the one time I felt that I could say it. I may be in the bathroom or in bed or out with the chickens or at the park, or in church at the grocery store or on a bike ride. It may be an idea, or a revelation about a character or the path a story should proceed. It is something hidden from the past boldly reaching out to the page. It is that thing which doesn’t come from intellect or research. It doesn’t come from brain storming. It comes only by it’s own will from the subconscious to the conscious and only for a brief moment. If I’m not ready, if I don’t repeat it out loud or write it quickly down, it becomes lost, forever. Gone. I can think and think and think, but it will not return. This is the plight of a writer such as myself. Being ready with pencil and paper. I’ve been noticing a common thread among the literature I’ve been reading, that the writer draws from a well. Writing opens the well and one must let it flow. The well will replenish itself as it empties but if it is not captured it will dry up. Too much thought into the actual inspired words will dry the well up. As I write I become a better writer. Sure I need to do my learning as well, but that is more for polish than anything. Everything I need as a writer is down in that well. It is coming from a lifetime of experiences, some of them too painful to tell, but opening that well and letting it flow will tap into those places which are hidden. This is what I’m learning as I begin to write. Those things too painful to remember and those good things in the past which are hidden by pain affect the quality of the words which come out as one writes and in time as one continues to write. Thinking too much can sometimes stifle the flow of words from the well. It’s kind of like all the filters on the water lines between our well and our drinking water. A lot is lost on the way. With drinking water that’s a good thing we don’t want that stuff anyway. But in writing it’s not good. Those things which are lost are the necessary things. The inspired things, they are the things which add color and life to an otherwise stale piece. Sometimes I think I’m afraid of the well and opening it up. But those moments when I don’t have a pencil and paper and a burst of words pops out keep me in awe of what is in there. I am trying to carry my i-phone with me at all times. If I don’t get a burst of words I can at least take pictures. 

Elizabeth Williams, writing exercise, 1,012 words.

An Awesome Day

Everyday I have big plans at the beginning of the day. Of course my first thought is to go back to bed and get some more sleep, but I know that won’t work because I’m already up. Going back to bed is like trying to get back to the same dream, it just doesn’t work like that. If I went back to bed now, I would try to get comfortable again, the kind of comfortable I just left. But my blood is flowing. It is coursing through my veins and I’ve already begun to sneeze the night dust out of my nose. I’ve already been around the property taking care of the birds and watering the plants, so I’m not in my pj’s anymore and there is dew on my feet. The only other option now is to decide to have an awesome day.

The day is new. Nothing has disturbed it yet. Some people wake up with disturbing things happening. Maybe a houseful of babies, hungry, wet and sometimes downright stinky. Crying and yelling and fighting. Some people are lucky to find a clean mug to have their coffee in when they wake up. And some people wake up not lucky enough to even have a cup of coffee. I’ve experienced all of the above at one time or another. But today nothing has disturbed the beauty of this new day for me. The people in the other situations can have an awesome day as well. Well they can decide to have an awesome day. So my day starts off perfectly. Coffee hot in the coffee maker, quiet all around me, electricity to run my computer. Don’t judge me, it’s not my fault it’s all so perfect. I’m just planning to enjoy it. I’m planning to write and then eat while I have Bible devotions. OK, so I should probably have devotions first, but have you ever tried that? You get up and decide no point going back to bed because if you lay down you will not be able to fall asleep nicely, so you have devotions. How is it that I can not fall asleep in my own bed after I’ve already abandoned it for morning chores but I can fall asleep instantly sitting up at the table trying to have devotions no problem at all? So I’m having devotions with breakfast. I read a few Bible verses from the church Bible Study Guide and some from my daily reading plan. Read the Bible in a year plan is now on the third year and not finished but I’m still plugging away at it. I like it because the Bible is a really big book and I don’t know what to read every day so a plan helps. It’s not like most books which have a logical order and story line. The Bible is made up of lots of stories and letters and genealogies and it’s all very interesting but some stuff is definitely more interesting than others so that’s why I use a plan. That way I will have read the entire Bible through some day.

I’m making plans for my day. I’m going to clean this dirty house from top to bottom. I’m going to whiz around in it for two hours and get it done. I’m going to get the ironing done and finish my weaving project, which I started last winter. I will spend time in the garden taking care of things there. I will do some more whizzing around the various flower beds to set them all in order and burn the weeds. All the windows need to be washed and the stairs are dirty. There are piles of stuff, I’m not sure what it all is, in every corner and between the corners. I will fill the trunk of the car with stuff to take to Good Will so that their will be less to take care of from now on. All the laundry will be done, folded and neatly put away. The toilet will shine. Oh, yes, I will have an awesome day. May even get to work peacefully on my new children’s picture book after I get all that done.

On facebook they have these things going around sometimes with a series of pictures depicting what ones life looks like from different points of view. If you use facebook then you know what I mean and I could stop writing right now because you’ll already know what happens in my day, but for those who don’t use facebook I’ll just have to tell you the truth.

There really isn’t any whizzing around going on here and their won’t be today or any day. Whizzing only works in Disney Movies and imaginations. Real life doesn’t have any of that. I wake Chloe up at 7:30am. From that point on my day is full of someone else’s chatter and ideas and busyness and my peaceful moment is a distant memory. It is as though it never happened. I will be challenged to remember what the most important things to do are. I will put two and the most three important tasks on my list for the day. Laundry and dishes. All right, picking ripe tomatoes and beans. If I manage that on top of the regular chores, duties and school work, and also manage to be nice to everybody and have dinner timely I will feel that the day was great. If I also get to deal with one pile or one of the other things on my wish list I will have had an awesome day. But if I manage to stay on task and accomplish anything at all while listening to the constant and engaging chatter of an eight year old I will feel amazing. And if I also manage this while walking around construction site type of tools and workman type clutter and disorganization I will feel like wonder woman. Today, I have decided, will be an awesome day, no matter what.

Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,005 words.

Book Review - August 13, 2014

Copycat, by Ruth Brown
Buddy, a young cat with a penchant for imitating everyone and everything around him, copies his mom, his sister, the squirrels, and the birds in the trees, but problems arise when he copies Bessie the dog.

Chloe checked this book out yesterday at the library.  What a fascinating book and with captivating pictures.  It is large. 11 1/2 inches tall by 10 inches wide.  Published in the US by Dutton Children's Books in 1994.

Also by Ruth Brown is The Picnic and One Stormy Night

This book is available to buy at Amazon.com in books or you can check it out at your local library.

Daisy and the Egg
Mama Duck and Aunt Buttercup are sitting on a new egg, and Daisy is eagerly awaiting the arrival of her new brother or sister. Days pass, and Daisy waits and waits . . . until she is finally awakened by a "Pip! Pip! Pip!" A story full of anticipation to which every older sibling can relate, "Daisy and the Egg" will surely be a hit with fans of this endearing duckling. Full color.

Chloe also checked out this book, Daisy and the Egg, by Jane Simmons.  Endearing pictures and a tale of courage and determination as well as patience.  Also a large book at 10 3/4" by 9 3/4".  The colors in this book are calming and cheery.  This book was published by Little, Brown Young Readers (February 1, 1999), and is available on Amazon.com or you can also check it out at your public library.

Also by Jane Simmons,
Quack Daisy QUACK
Come Along, Daisy!
Daisy and the Beastie
Daisy and the Moon
Go to Sleep, Daisy

Your public library may not have every book but you could always ask.  Some libraries let you look on-line and make requests.

Both of these books are older books and may be out of print.  They are still great books to read with children and have wonderful artwork.

The Library

I’m sitting here at my computer, in my home, feeling fairly safe and private. I do a Google search to find an answer to something we were wondering about yesterday. I find a lot of options in the search and choose one and then another. I make a note of the helpful stuff and save it for later. I may even print it out if it’s important enough to keep. Then I move over to Facebook. I always do that now. It’s just part of the whole internet thing, now-a-days. To the right side of the main body are a list of ever changing ads. I don’t usually pay attention to them but this time there is one on the exact subject I just did a search on. It’s Google. It’s everywhere on the internet.

I love the internet for the ease of finding information. When the older kids were young we didn’t have the internet. The internet was becoming available as the kids got older but when they were young it was the library. We had several dictionaries in our home and some encyclopedias. I taught them to look something up if they didn’t know and to be sure about what they thought they knew. If we needed to know more, then it was the weekly trip to the county library. The first library we went to in our town was in a very old historic building with rooms full of books, a sitting area, tall narrow windows and a reception desk in the center room. It was full of books and crowded. The town had been working on plans for a new library for years and had finally come to an agreement on the whole project. The plans were posted at the old library and at the new library building site and posted in the daily paper. It was an exciting time in our town. Our family was also excited. We followed along with the progress.

Finally the day came for the books to be moved to the new building. Many of the books in the old building weren’t important enough to move so they had a sale and the kids and I went down there and bought as many as we could afford. Of course I had to go home and build a bookshelf to hold them all. We were at the new library for its opening week. It was beautiful. Large open spaces and plenty of light. The children’s books were on short shelves which you could see easily over and the lounge area for the kids was colorful and imaginative. We loved it. I could browse books of interest to me and watch the kids. I was interested in books about writing. Just in case you were wondering. All the other books we took home were children’s books which I loved as much or more than the kids. Not all the books we checked out were fiction. There was so much we wanted to know. There were books about places in the world, boats and planes and plants and animals. We found books about times in history. We read all the books we could. Sometimes we read books all day and most of the night. We often fell asleep reading.

Now we have Google, or Bing or other. I use Google. I can google from the computer or a device like Kindle, i-phone, as long as I have Wi-Fi. We can check different sources and print things out. One can go for hours referencing and cross referencing and finding out stuff. Amazon is always on standby. Have you noticed that? Whenever I come across a book about a subject, Amazon is there with a ‘buy now’ button. Prime members can have ‘one click’ service. No need to verify your purchase because you are a Prime Member. It’s quite risky. I’ve clicked on something to see more about it and next day there it is at my door. Of course, now I know that you have thirty minutes to cancel if you made a mistake. That is if you realize what you did. Buying books on Amazon is the easiest thing. I had to have Mark build me some shelves.

We have been using Google but this year we have decided to get back to our library routine. We did that when Chloe was younger but stopped during an unusually busy and stressful time. We have just started fourth grade. Fourth grade is the beginning of bigger stuff. We are going to need the library. We are excited about it. I’m hoping that their won’t be a sidebar on facebook reflecting our library browsing decisions. Hopefully there won't be any pop up bill-boards all the road, trying to sell us something because of our research choices. I have noticed that too on the internet. It all seems to be connected. Everything you look up or research on the internet has with it a whole industry. You innocently look up something to do with tomato diseases and you find answers. Lot’s of great answers. Some of them really useful. But then of course their are the books you may need and Amazon is there to help you with that. Then there are the industries. Ads about tomato cages, special gardening techniques, boxes and special watering systems, dirt analysis kits, seed packets, companion plants, chemicals and organic solutions. Help for the study of the moon and stars in relation to your tomato plants. All the animals and bugs and all the equipment needed to keep them away, trap them or delete them. These things pop up, slide across, invade the facebook news feed, fill your spam folder in your email. I looked up something once which had to do with health. Goodness me, I got so tired of that ad with the fat tummy and the big secret. Every time I tried to do something there it was. Sometimes it was moving, sometimes it was cut open so I could see what it looked like on the inside. I’m really hoping this does not happen with the library. With every thing becoming so modernized, I’m hoping that the library is still that same quiet, respectful, non-advertising peaceful place it always was, where information and adventure await you quietly from within the silent shelves.

Written by: Elizabeth Williams, daily writing exercise, 1,054 words.

The House - 1

The house stood there on the hill just as it always had. That is since it was built, in 1869.

My great great grandfather had built it when he was 31 years old. He had built it for his wife who he wasn’t married to yet, but he wouldn’t marry her until he had a suitable house. His idea of a suitable house was a rather large expensive one, which he worked hard to save up for and which all his energies went into the building of. This is why he was already 31 years old and still not married. But Louise had waited patiently, which was rather amazing since she had many anxious suitors and her parents not really sure of my great great grandfathers intentions though he had stated it very clearly, tried to marry their daughter off several times. However she was sure that great great grandfather was the only one for her and had promised to wait for him to the end of time if need be. And wait she did. He had bought the property near her parents home. It was 50 acres of wooded hillside with a pond at the bottom fed by a small creek. He had taken Louise there and they had walked all over it sharing ideas and dreams for their house and future family. The next day he left for the big city. He wrote letters. Lots of short ones, and gave a return address. She wrote long letters in return and made lots of visits to the property. He had been 21 when he left and she had been 17. Her parents thought she would get over it in time and fall in love with one of the charming young suitors. On the contrary the property she said was a sign of his promise and she believed him. After a few years he began to send her pictures of homes. She wrote back her comments about this one and that. The years passed and she turned 27. Her sisters had all married and called her Auntie Spinster. Then he came home. He took her to their property and showed her the plans. Soon he had a crew of workers building away. He paid attention to quality, detail and structure. She made plans for the wedding. Her parents were all too glad that she was finally going to marry. She had been teaching at the village school and this was truly a big affair with the children. By now she had many nieces and nephews and great great grandpas family was also a large one. The wedding was to be one of great importance. Great great grandpa had learned banking and investment in the big city and now he set up his own bank in the village.

When the house was finished and enough furniture bought so that they were comfortable the couple were married and it was 1869.

My Aunt Melinda told me this. She said it was my heritage. So I’m writing it down to keep it for all the generations to come. There is a large painting of my great great grandparents, Theodore and Louise. It is hanging over the mantle in the great room.

I hadn’t seen the house for years. Some things had changed and it appeared smaller than I remembered it. The shrubs had grown and were now tall bushes. I remember jumping over them in a game we used to play. They were much too tall for that now. Some of the flower beds were gone too and lawn took their place. Some undergrowth had surrounded the trees close to the house. Even the house itself seemed changed. The walls no longer held the boldness they once had but seemed friendlier, gentler. The gate at the end of the long drive was new. Even the maples which had lined the long drive had been replaced with saplings. It was a pretty sight but nothing like the majestic tunnel through which we had ridden our bikes on many a summer vacation to visit Grandma and Grandpa. Yet their was still something strangely magical about the place. I hesitated at the gate, taking a good look at everything. The edge of the property stopped just a few yards from the driveway now. The orchards had all been sold off to residences. But the main grounds remained. The barn was gone and the stables had been turned into a double car garage. But for all the changes I saw, one feeling surrounded me and that was comfort. Like the comfortable feeling of being home after a long trip. You’ve been camping or taken a road trip somewhere and you come home and it is so comforting to hear the crunch of the tires on your own driveway stones. Even if your drive is paved it still sounds and feels different than all the roads in the world. I’ve always felt that. Even if I were asleep and we pulled into our own drive. It sounded like home. I would always wake up right as we pulled into our driveway. You can travel the world, far and wide and it all feels the same, but the minute you pull into your own driveway you can tell. It was like that for me now. I was still in the car. I had pulled into the driveway and stopped before this big iron gate. Everything was so changed but I felt as though I were home. I got out of the car and walked toward the gate. Even though I hadn’t seen this gate before, opening it felt natural and good. I got back in my car and drove slowly down the drive. I was home.

Written by Elizabeth Williams, fiction, The House.  The first part in a series. 8/11/14

To read the next chapters: The House 2, The House 3, The House 4, The House 5, The House 6, The House 7, The House 8